


Intermission

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), F/M, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Aziraphale wanted to come to this show, but... well. His demon turns out to be just as interesting.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 134





	Intermission

In this day and age, when movies have been around for over a hundred years, the fact that her angel still insists on their nights out to involve ‘real’ people is… well. Ridiculous. 

“Hollywood actors are real people,” Annie told him. “Or - close enough.”

“It just isn’t the same as being in the room with them…”

“But you can feel the audience, if that’s what you want!”

“Humour me,” Aziraphale had asked, and the demon had reluctantly agreed.

At least it was the West End, and not another bloody ballet or - shudder - opera. Opera had been fun, back when it was new, but so had the luxury of running water. Now it was too tied up with the bourgeoisie and also it just wasn’t as good as watching car chases or animated characters or… it just wasn’t.

The angel, hedonist that he was, had got them a private box. Not in the peanut throwing area, not any more. He’d fully embraced his place in life as someone who didn’t even feign modesty. Which was fine with Crowley. She’d always prefered to stay with the times, and she didn’t understand why her angel had paused. Maybe this was a sign he was finally moving on?

The champagne cocktail was pleasant enough, and she found the production was at least interesting enough to watch the proscenium more than the plebeians in front of it. Just when she was begrudgingly ready to admit the show was a reasonable use of their time, she felt a subtle shift and a warm, sure hand curled on her thigh above her knee.

This was nothing totally new. Aziraphale had embraced their relationship, once it truly started. It still made her stomach lurch pleasantly when he took her hand in his, or brushed her hair back to kiss her neck in public. He would always find that fine line where his public display would appear classy and distinguished, whilst utterly destroying her on the inside.

Lips on the inside of her wrist would remind her of the way he looked up at her from between her thighs. A coat draped chivalrously around her (which she didn’t need, but she would refuse to take a heavy outer coat if it didn’t suit her outfit, and she also secretly liked being bundled up in the smell and warmth of him…) and she would remember soft wings, strong arms. 

It wasn’t her fault that he could wreck her with just a single brow arched suggestively. And it might be why - for now - she was preferring this set of pronouns. If she were to let him treat her like this with another set of organs on board… no jeans would ever be tight enough to control his response. 

She can feel every inch of his palm. Feel where the lines that cross it pull his skin up and away. The bones in the digits. The beat of his pulse. She sinks sharp teeth into her painted lips and her tongue into the roof of her mouth, inhaling deeply through her nose. 

Aziraphale’s fingers find the perfect place to press, to spark at the bundles of nerves, sinews, tendons. Like a jolt of pure electricity shooting towards her crotch, and her legs fall subtly apart, automatically agreeing to this, to anything.

No one can see them. Not below the waist. They can only see a dignified couple, dressed nicely, watching the show. They can’t see that the angel must be tenting his dove-grey, tailored trousers. They can’t see the tension as the skirt of her dress is pulled apart until it has no more give in, and threatens to either rip or ride up if she needs more. The scant touch of the air to her delicate panties is yet more torture, and she wonders if he can taste the scent of her body’s reaction.

Hot. Hot, wet lust. Torn between parting her legs wider and begging for his fingers to slip under the fabric, or clamping her thighs together and tilting her hips so her weight bears the pressure of her body down in the right spot to make it work with her. 

Indecent, the angel would say. Utterly indecent.

But he wouldn’t stop her, not right away. He’d watch her try to use her own body and the furniture to get some release. Seeking friction, and the glint in her angel’s eyes. Ratcheting the arousal higher, feeling her channel achingly widen. The slick feeling of her juices preparing her for entry. The pounding of her heartbeat making every moment a delicious torture. 

Aziraphale smiles subtly, knowing what he’s doing. He’s such a perfect bastard, so delightfully wicked in all the right ways. He strokes concentric circles with his thumb, and she clenches her muscles over thin air, wishing for something more substantial. His clever digits, maybe. Slipped under the hem, rubbing her knickers over her pubis. Squeezing at her sex. Burrowing between her folds, and telling her arousal to come hither as his fingers thrust up and into her, bent to widen her further open. Glancing at her clit, never giving her enough to finish, telling her this isn’t the place…

He wouldn’t fuck her here. No matter how much he teased, he wouldn’t. No matter if she pulled the box’s curtains closed and climbed up and on his lap. No matter if she ravished herself with perfectly manicured nails and told him she was going to come, with or without him. Not if she grabbed his cock and begged him to ream her up against the wall, bent over the balcony, or thrown down on a table. 

Damn him!

Damn the current fashions!

Those big-hooped skirts had always had such potential, and her angel did enjoy using his mouth. She could imagine him hiding in the folds of her skirt, kneading her ass in his hands as he devoured her. Nose drawing lines for his tongue to scrawl ancient verses up and across. All the while she would try to appear normal, as he plunged his fingers into her and sucked her clit until she couldn’t help but gush and release over his chin. 

But no. A thin, tight dress that showed her subtle curves. That would do nothing to hide her arousal if it became too damp. That hobbled her thighs, and made her dream of hands gliding up her calves and above to bare her for the mount and sheathe. The final consummation, that would give her all she needed.

Instead.

A thumb, just beside her patella. The lightest dig of fingernails. The steady, but heavy breathing. 

“You don’t seem to be enjoying the play, my dear,” he purrs. 

“Mmmmn. It’s alright.”

“Would you like to escape at the interval? Drive me home in your car?”

Drive. Heh. No. She’ll get him there and then throw him or be thrown onto the back seat. She needs to get off, and get off soon. 

Annie doesn’t even put up token resistance. She meets his eyes, and demands he follows through. “Anything you want, angel.”

They can always come back and see if they last longer next time. Either way will be a win.


End file.
